


Our Father

by Minkey222



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Matt Murdock, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sad, there will be a part two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12290037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkey222/pseuds/Minkey222
Summary: That’s the bitter tingle of whiskey; that sultry mix of oaky, floral tone that dances on the taste buds and scorches on the way down. Aromatic perfumery, gentle notes of sandalwood and tears. That’s the drink of choice for the emotionally repressed, a connoisseur to the damned and a teacher to the wicked- or so he’d heard before.





	Our Father

 

That’s the bitter tingle of whiskey; that sultry mix of oaky, floral tone that dances on the taste buds and scorches on the way down. Aromatic perfumery, gentle notes of sandalwood and tears. That’s the drink of choice for the emotionally repressed, a connoisseur to the damned and a teacher to the wicked- or so he’d heard before. That numbing tonic that’d graced his lips many times since the solemn years of childhood, that’s the drip that coats his lips and fingers. It’s that stench on him, the one that shouts and points to neon signs, the one where he gets reckless. Father, forgive him for the sins he has committed and the sins he will commit, for even he, the most devout, knows that in this world no being is perfect.

 

(Our father, who aren’t in heaven hallowed be thy name)

 

His finger circles the rim of the glass, slick with spills and gritty with imperfections. His hand hanging limply off the edge of the sticky leather chair that lays in the middle of the room. His forehead clammy, his hair sticking down flat. That drip, drip of his blood on the floor- that’s the ire of it all, isn’t it? His heartbeat sits heavy in his ears, the thrumming pulse lying in wait under the thin skin. These are the senses that compensate for his sight; that sticky, oozy, metal smell that coats the air he breathes like layers of cheap spray paint. It clings to him, to the inside of his nose- that ‘drip, drip’ thunderous in his head, the beginning of a headache, the end of an era. This is his penance. He blinks. He takes a sip from his glass, the crystal is chilling to the touch but warm from his fingers, smooth to the sight- but of course, he wouldn’t know- the sound it produces as the liquid vibrates against the curved edges go down smoother than any orchestra.

 

(Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven)

 

This is his penance. This is his penance. A spoken word not permitted, no movement allowed, this is his penance. His life sentence; father, forgive him for he has sinned- sinned and sinning and will sin. He will drown in the sin poured out into a bottomless pool (and yet it still fills to the top and still rising, rising). These are his sins poured out for you in cataracts and waterfalls, these are his sins poured out. Red onto the carpet- but he supposed everything is red to him, what difference does it make if he smears more on? There’s already red in his ledger. This is the question, the wonder, the marvel of his life. If all he sees is red how does he know when to stop adding to it?

 

(Give us this day, our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses)

 

He is an enigma, a question mark on a blank piece of paper. Better off without him, better off dead. This is his memoir, his legacy, his memory. Better off dead. Better off dead. This is all that follows. That lone thought. He sips again from the glass. The slits in his wrists are wrapped around his rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, mother of god. Hail Mary. He pangs in pain at the blood on the virgin, the mother, the fruit barer. This is the mortal sin, the original sin. He is in too deep. This is for the best, he is better off dead. It’s better for everyone that way. It’s better for everyone if he hurried up and spends the rest of eternity rotting in Hell where he truly belongs; after all, where does he end and the devil begin?

 

(As we forgive those who trespass against us)

 

This is how he repays the ones he has wronged. This is his cross that he built and bore, this is his crucifixion, this is his penance- his spear and crown of thorns. This is his payment to his family, his friends he has forsaken. Yes, that is the sharp bitterness of whiskey- the stabbing agony and burning whispers that threaten to swallow him whole. The wounds are deep, from wrist to elbow. These are nails in his palms. The whiskey is the nails in his feet. The sorrow is the spear in his side. The regret is his crown which bleeds into his sightless eyes. He is sorry to those he has wronged, to those he has lied, to those he betrayed. This is his final gift to them. This is his penance and he may finally find an end to his sin.

 

(But lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil)

 

Yes, this is his penance, but he will never find peace.

 

(Amen)

**Author's Note:**

> This is certainly a guilty pleasure, after binge-watching the Netflix series in its entirety and then binging the works in the fan community. This is vaguely ambiguous and I have a less ambiguous, more 'explain-y' part two in the works, I promise. But mostly this was cathartic, having come from a rather religious background (though not to the extent that Matt did), I felt that this let all the knowledge that I had collected flow into it and I was able to shuck some of it off of me. I came from a history of, while not having religious parents or such, religious schools (though it is said that if you want you child to not be religious, send them to a religious school) so it was nice to put what I learnt to use. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
